


a velocipede built for two

by dogeared



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: And Other Sweet Things, Baked Goods, Other, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-08-23 14:31:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20244400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogeared/pseuds/dogeared
Summary: More to the point, Aziraphale is hungry.





	a velocipede built for two

Aziraphale is beginning to regret his insistence that they queue up just like any other customers. The long line wends its way out the door of the bakery, snaking around the parking lot. It’s a bit too warm for all of his layers, though Crowley, slouching next to him with his hands in his pockets and his face tipped up to the sun, seems to be enjoying basking in it. More to the point, Aziraphale is hungry. He can see what the patrons sitting at tables outside are enjoying, families with small children and large dogs all vying more or less successfully for a bite, and he jealously watches the steady stream of people exiting with tempting pink boxes in their hands. 

“This is one of mine, you know,” Crowley says. 

“What, endless queues?” Aziraphale asks, feeling a bit tetchy.

“No, the write-up!” Crowley declares triumphantly.

When Aziraphale just blinks at him, he continues. “You know, big glossy magazine publishes an article about the best food town and the places you _just can’t miss_ in that food town, and boom.” Crowley gestures expansively to all of the people around them, as if to demonstrate the scale of his bad works.

“But wouldn’t that be a boon to the business?” Aziraphale asks.

“Sure,” Crowley allows, waving a hand dismissively, “ ’s fine for them, but think of all of the irritated locals who just want a cup of coffee and have to wade through a sea of tourists to get it! Or the angry customers when they run out of, of scones or what have you! And their competitors, all covetousness and envy. _Parking._ Fomenting discontent, that is.”

As they inch closer to the entrance, Aziraphale can read a small sign taped to the door: _Please keep this door shut for the sake of our air conditioning._ Unsurprisingly, when it’s their turn to step up to it, Crowley makes sure to prop said door wide open with the whole length of his long, lean body. Aziraphale can feel the waves of disapproval from the women standing behind them, and he sighs, “My dear.” 

“Old habit,” Crowley smirks, but the temperature inside drops a few degrees to make up for it. 

Inside the bakery, the smell is absolutely sublime. Butter and sugar and spice, cut through with bitter notes of coffee. Tantalizingly close now to the counter laden with sweet and savory baked goods of all sorts, Aziraphale tips up onto his toes to try and get a better view. 

The bakery’s logo is a charming illustration of a velocipede, and there are shelves of merchandise adorned with it, conveniently located just next to where they’re currently stuck in line. (“Merchandise! That’s one of mine, too.”) Aziraphale’s not interested in the tee-shirts and ball caps, but he does rather fancy the sturdy-looking mugs.

But before he has a chance to dither about purchasing one, it’s suddenly their turn to order. Aziraphale hasn’t decided what he wants, and he’s all too aware of the crowd waiting behind him, of Crowley leaning on the glass exactly where it definitely says _Do not lean_. Well. He simply can’t choose, and he ends up with two large pink boxes filled to the brim—and then he spots the pies, and the two boxes become three. He doesn’t actually hand over a credit card, but the young man with the beanie and the mustache and the tattoos behind the counter smiles and obligingly turns a screen around for Aziraphale to sign with a squiggle, and the till finds itself significantly heavier, and the tip jar stuffed full. 

All of the places to sit are occupied, until miraculously a couple stand up from their table in the corner and clear their dishes, pausing to wipe up any crumbs. “What luck,” Crowley mutters, and Aziraphale smiles smugly as they claim it. 

There are tiny potted succulents ornamenting each table. Aziraphale can feel theirs striving to be more adorable, the _most_ adorable, as soon as Crowley sits, and Crowley spares it an approving look. It’s challenging to lounge effectively while perched on a tall stool, but Crowley appears to be trying his best. 

Aziraphale likes this place. There’s some sort of bebop playing over the speakers, a touch too loudly (remedied easily enough), but he appreciated the vinyl record sleeve propped up behind the counter. 

He glances around at the patrons, some of them obvious tourists, mobile phones out to take pictures of their foamy coffee drinks and plates of food arranged just so. Crowley’s fomenting notwithstanding, regulars in an array of interesting outfits and hairstyles seem happy enough to have settled in around the newcomers, some chatting with each other, a few engrossed in books. He and Crowley fit right in, here on the latest stop of a sort of grand tour they’ve embarked on—a chance to travel the world not to tempt or thwart or bless, but just to sample the pleasures and beauties and wholly human wonders that get to go on existing. 

Aziraphale carefully sets his boxes to the side, then turns his full attention to the plate in front of him, sending up small but fervent thanks for the bounty of the earth and the creativity of humankind (another old habit). As he tucks into his fluffy American-style biscuit overloaded with salty butter and tart berry jam, he allows himself a moment to close his eyes and savor all of the flavors. 

While he’s lost in baked good bliss, a splodge of jam briefly threatens to fall onto Aziraphale’s lapel but changes its mind and lands harmlessly on the plate instead. When he opens his eyes again, Crowley is watching him intently. “Good?” he asks. 

“Exquisite,” Aziraphale moans happily after he’s swallowed the last bite. “Oh, I shouldn’t, but—” Aziraphale uses a finger to swipe up the errant drop of jam, jewel red and glistening, and suck it into his mouth. Crowley makes a strangled noise and clutches at the edge of the table, like maybe he’d begun to slip off of his stool and just caught himself. 

“Are you all right?”

Crowley scowls at him over the top of his sunglasses. “Angel, your satisfaction is oozing all over me. If you don’t mind, maybe keep it to yourself.” 

“I _am_ sorry. It’s just that I find myself remarkably happy, right here.”

“With your tower of orgasmic pastries?”

“With you, of course.” He reaches across the table, and Crowley meets him halfway, tangling their fingers together. 

"All right?" Aziraphale asks again, quieter.

"Yes, yes, all right," Crowley says, and if he means to sound cross, or bored, or anything other than utterly fond, well, he’s failed quite completely.

Eventually they take pity on new customers waiting for a table and stand up to take their leave. Aziraphale gathers up his boxes and is about to make his way to the exit when Crowley stops in front of him, producing one of the bakery mugs with a flourish and balancing it on top. “I paid for it. Uh. If you were worried or anything. Just, well. A souvenir,” he says. 

Aziraphale is, by now, quite familiar with the sensation that follows, the great welling up of love and devotion so all-encompassing that it’s nearly too much for his human body to contain. He leans close, pressing a kiss to Crowley’s cool cheek and murmuring, “Thank you,” and he’s sure that time pauses, just for a second or two.

When it starts back up again, Crowley takes the boxes from him, leaving Aziraphale to cradle the mug gently in his hands. “So. Where to next?” Crowley asks. 

“You choose,” Aziraphale says, and they step out into the sunshine together.


End file.
